


Domesticity

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, M/M, Masturbation, More Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-08 19:55:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1954218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another series of drabbles, these centered around Sherlock's incomprehension of domestic tasks. Like...oh...cooking for one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John was at the sink in the kitchen of 221B, elbow deep in sudsy water. He was scrubbing ferociously at a burned-on mess on one of their best casseroles. He was really beginning to regret the bargain he’d made with Sherlock.

 

*****

 

“Cooking class?” Sherlock looked incredulous.

“Yes, cooking class. Much as I love going out to Angelo’s, I’ve eaten every single thing on his menu at least three times. And the Chinese place isn’t much different. I’ve even eaten things I don’t particularly enjoy, just for something different. And you’re coming with me.”

“John, I don’t see how I could possibly attend. Lestrade just came by with a case,” Sherlock said, turning to the files in question.

“Which I’m pretty sure you’ve already solved since we’re not out running all over London,” John countered. “You’re coming with me or so help me the only cases you’ll get for the next month will be from Mycroft.”

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open, his lips forming a perfect circle and his eyes grew wide. John didn’t need to deduce that he’d nearly scandalized the consulting detective with his threat. The expression on his face was clear proof.

“You wouldn’t,” Sherlock said.

“Try me,” John replied, steel in his voice. When John sounded like that, Sherlock knew the argument was over. He sighed.

“But don’t expect me to enjoy myself,” he said.

 

*****

 

Sherlock refused to speak the next day. He didn’t answer John about the morning tea, wouldn’t talk about the weather, which was ridiculously boring anyway, and even refused to be kissed. Sherlock hated to refuse the intimacy, but it seemed to have proven his point. John had sighed and wandered away to read the paper. Of course this fit of pique was merely to conceal the fact that Sherlock was absolutely terrified of the prospect of the class. He’d never so much as boiled an egg for himself. Considering that he rarely ate, it didn’t make much sense for Sherlock to ever learn to cook for himself. Mycroft, on the other hand, could bake at a near-professional level. He just never did because of Sherlock’s constant berating of his weight.

The fact was that Sherlock only knew how to turn on the cooker because of an experiment, and even then he’d reluctantly requested Mrs. Hudson to do the honors as he surreptitiously observed her actions on the pretext that the damn thing was in disrepair. John could at least make toast and box dinners when pressed, and he hadn’t needed anyone to show him how the cooker worked.

The day wore on, and Sherlock became more and more waspish and irritable the closer it came to actually leaving for the class. Not that he’d spoken, but his expressions became more pointed and his disdain for any of John’s attempts at conversation became almost palpable. Sherlock wondered briefly if he could wrangle himself out of this arrangement by refusing to dress appropriately, but he was certain that John would drag him out by the ear regardless of what was, or wasn’t, covering his body. In the end, he resigned himself to the fact that he would have to go and perhaps actually participate.

“Alright, you git, time to go,” John said finally. Sherlock had been lying on the couch, fingertips pressed to his lips, pretending to think. He paused for just a moment before breathing deeply through his nose and standing. He pulled on his suit coat and nearly swirled into his overcoat before John reminded him that it was still unseasonably warm and that if he’d deigned to talk to him this morning, they wouldn’t have had to talk about it now. Sherlock merely shrugged, hung the coat back up, and buttoned his jacket as they descended the stairs.

 

*****

 

When they got to the class, John wasn’t sure he should have pressured Sherlock into coming. Most of the other participants were either of Mrs. Hudson’s age or in their twenties, and most of them stopped their conversations and followed Sherlock and John as they found places near the door. Sherlock shot a dagger-sharp look at John, and the doctor merely smiled in response, pulling Sherlock’s hand into his own and squeezing gently. Sherlock huffed moodily but did not pull his hand away. A few of the other students smiled at them, and just as quickly as they’d become the center of attention, they weren’t anymore and everyone had gone back to their phones or conversations. John was relieved. It would have made the detective even more reticent if he thought he’d be studied by these people. Sherlock began to pull out his mobile too before John gave him a swat and a glare. Having Sherlock buried in his phone was not the plan for this endeavor.

It was then that the instructor appeared, wearing, appropriately, a toque and apron.

“Good evening,” the man said in a French accent so thick it almost sounded fake. “I am Monsieur Renaud.”

John looked at Sherlock to see if it was, indeed, put on for appearances, but Sherlock wasn’t paying attention to the instructor. He was staring intently at the two aprons that had been placed on the countertop in front of them by an assistant. He was shaking his head.

“Eef you all would be so kind as to put on your…er…coverings, yes? Then we may begin!”

Sherlock gave John a look that said ‘I don’t wear coveralls at crime scenes, why on earth would I wear an apron?’ before John slipped the neck strap over Sherlock’s head and smiled up at him.

“Just…for me. Please,” John said. “I’d hate to get that suit ruined.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but dutifully tied the strings around his waist. He felt like an idiot, and if there was one thing Sherlock despised, it was feeling like an idiot. John, however, looked charming in his apron, which was just enough too long to make the doctor appear even shorter.

“Excellent!” the instructor interrupted before Sherlock could comment on the fact that he thought John looked absolutely precious. Pity, that.

“Now, we will begin with a very simple recipe: Frisee with soft-cooked eggs and bacon. To begin…”

Monsieur Renaud spoke slowly, but Sherlock was hard pressed to keep up with all the unfamiliar phrases and procedures. To his immense relief, John was considerably more comfortable in a kitchen and explained something when Sherlock began to get truly lost. Sherlock’s default response to John’s help was an over-dramatic eye-roll, but he did follow directions. At the end, Sherlock had soft-boiled an egg for the first time, washed and prepared salad greens, and fried bacon. He was rather proud of himself.

“Next week, we will be working on bread,” M. Renaud said as John and Sherlock tasted the results of their effort.

Sherlock glared at John and raised an eyebrow. You didn’t tell me there’d be a next week his expression said.

“Bread’ll be fun,” John said, grinning.

 

*****

 

They walked in the door of 221B and Sherlock rounded on John.

“How many classes are in this session?” Sherlock asked quietly, a dangerous note in his voice. The detective had not signed up for more than one evening of this ridiculous pursuit.

“Six. By the end, you’re supposed to be able to make an entire meal. We did the salad today, next week is obviously bread,” John replied.

“What about cases?” Sherlock said.

“Well, unless you go to an abandoned building with a killer cabbie on a Thursday night, we can make time.”

“The WORK, John,” Sherlock all but bellowed as he threw up his hands disgustedly.

“You’ll have the work, Sherlock,” John soothed, “but only if you go to class. You could always ask if Mycroft has a case for you.”

Sherlock glared daggers at the doctor for a moment, then sighed and shook his head.

“You’re not going to yield on this, are you? No, I can see by the set of your jaw that you won’t. This is why sentiment is so utterly devastating. I find myself allowing you to coax me into agreeing to your terms when I otherwise would simply throw you out.”

“I love you too, you git,” John said, and gave Sherlock a squeeze around his waist and a quick kiss on the cheek.

 

*****

 

John and Sherlock missed exactly one class while they were trapped inside a model pyramid in a museum. They had been on the track of a particularly talented thief and had followed him inside, only to have an unknown accomplice lock them inside. Sherlock had all but beaten his head against the wall for not realizing there had been an accomplice. John had calmly called Lestrade and informed him of the situation and asked that as few people as possible know what had happened, to save some of Sherlock’s pride. The man had an ego the size of the North Sea, but it could be deflated by the smallest things. Much as John tried to explain to Sherlock that no person on earth was actually perfect, the detecive had refused to believe that he couldn’t be the only one.

 

Turns out, the pair had missed the class dealing with the roast. They had been given the recipe on the next class. To John’s utter shock, when he’d returned home from the surgery the following day Sherlock was in the kitchen with the ingredients spread out on the table. Sherlock had done the shopping. And had then proceeded to clear the table of all experimental equipment. Had, in fact, made the kitchen look like a proper kitchen and not an industrial waste dump.

“Shall we try this one ourselves? I think I’ve gotten the correct ingredients.”

“Sherlock?” John said, unable to articulate anything more complex.

“It’s like an experiment, John. Putting all the parts together in the right way.” Sherlock said, his eyes bright with anticipation. “It reminds me of beginning chemistry, when all the reagents are given and you only have to put them together to obtain a result. I wonder if, after one has mastered many of the more common experiments if they then can anticipate a reagent’s effect…”

Sherlock was mumbling to himself, calling ingredients much more scientific things and speculating on whether or not he could achieve success here in the same way as he did in the lab.

“The only way we can find out is to try,” John said, chuckling. Sherlock turned the sleeves of his shirt up to the elbows and perused the recipe again.

“Right. Well, let’s see what we have here,” John said pulling the paper from Sherlock and squinting critically at it.

 

*****

 

The roast had been edible. Dry but edible. What hadn’t been edible was Sherlock’s attempt to expand on his cooking experiments with the leftover ingredients of the roast. What had come out of the oven was black and stank of burnt garlic. Neither of them had decided to taste it, but Sherlock made remarks about his attempt in a notebook. Much to John’s astonishment, Sherlock had eaten nearly an entire slice of the roast before grousing about needing to get his experiments underway again. John wondered if Sherlock would eat more, and more regularly, if he’d made it himself. It was worth a few extra trips to Tesco. Maybe.

“Right. Washing up. Come on.” John said and pulled at Sherlock’s sleeve.

“What? No, I have to put the kitchen back in order,” Sherlock said.

“Back in order? Sherlock, the kitchen is cleaner than it’s been in months!”

“But my microscope? I’ve had to put it in the bedroom. No, John. It won’t do.”

John gritted his teeth, trying very hard no to turn this into a row. Sherlock had done the shopping after all.

“Alright. I’ll do the washing up tonight. But if I cook, then you do the washing up. Are we clear?”

“Of course. Now, where did I put that box of slides?”

“I’m holing you to that,” John said menacingly before clearing the dishes from the table and depositing them in the sink.

And even with the scrubbing and swearing when the burnt food wouldn’t come off the casserole, even though John was regretting that Sherlock had made the connection between cooking and chemistry, of course he’d make that connection he’s the smartest man I’ve ever met, he was insanely pleased that Sherlock had eaten well. So, the class had been worth it. And John found himself wondering if there was a class on German cooking coming up. He never could resist a good schnitzel. 


	2. You Had a Row with a Machine?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock does, indeed, have a row with a machine...

Sherlock glared at the machine as though it had personally insulted him. In a way, it had. There were reasons Sherlock did not use this machine. Not the least of which was the fact that the last time he’d attempted to hoover he’d knocked over one of his experiments and had had to explain to Mrs. Hudson why there was formaldehyde leaking through her ceiling. John had thought the whole episode immensely funny.

 

*****

 

John was visiting his sister Harry, who’d finally been through AA and was slowly reconciling with Clara. John had wanted to be supportive. Unfortunately, that left Sherlock without John, who usually did all of the necessary chores around the flat, and Mrs. Hudson was having a bad time of it with her hip and John had expressly forbade the landlady from coming upstairs until it was better. Which left Sherlock glaring at the machine in the closet with utter contempt.

Normally, he would leave it be. Dust did not bother him in the slightest. Actually, dust could be very helpful. If it was disturbed, Sherlock would know immediately who’d been through his belongings and when. It was also good for tracking footprints if allowed to collect on the edges of the rugs. There were infinite possibilities for experiments with the stuff, too. Sherlock could tell, simply by the way the dust slipped between his fingers when he tested a bit, if it was house dust or office dust, and if it was house dust if it had come from a bedroom or lounge. He was almost as good with dust as he was with ash, although he’d never taken the time to write it up. Maybe he would while John was away, he could present his evidence on the benefits of dust, accuse the lowly hoover of interfering with important Work. Yes, it was a distinct possibility.

Sherlock moved to the computer set up at the desk and opened it. Sherlock wasn’t certain anymore if this was his computer or John’s, but it hardly mattered. He typed in the password and after the machine had booted up, stared at it, horror and amusement present in equal measure. There, as the background image for the desktop was John Watson stark naked, posing with the infernal device, his left foot on the cylinder, holding the carpet brush across his chest like a weapon. The detective was so surprised by the image, he wasn’t sure whether he should laugh or not. It was immediately apparent the photograph had been taken by a camera with a timer, so he didn’t have to track down whoever had been in this room for that bit of…well. Sherlock was very glad John had been alone. That was all there was to it. Also, there was a note left on the desktop in the upper lefthand corner.

_Mrs. Hudson has been informed to listen for the sound of the hoover while I’m away, and she_ will _tell me. Matter of fact, when she calls me and tells me you’ve finished, I’ll send you another photo._

John had taken more than one photo on this occasion? Sherlock tried to recall a time when John had been in the flat alone long enough to accomplish this. It must have been when Lestrade had insisted on Sherlock staying behind to answer some incredibly dull questions the DI still had about a case Sherlock had assisted with. The questions had seemed obtuse even for the Detective Inspector. Sherlock should have been suspicious right off.

Now Sherlock was curious, however, as to what John had done for the follow-up. But to find out required…Sherlock shot a murderous look back at the machine in question. How long did it take Mrs. Hudson to hoover the flat? It had never been something Sherlock had paid much attention to in the past. Despite her protestations, Mrs. Hudson behaved more like a grandmother than a landlady.

No, it was no good. There were no entries for ‘Mrs. Hudson hoovering’ in his mind palace. He may have to remedy that in future. There was nothing for it now, however.

Sherlock approached the hoover as though it were a dangerous beast that was set on devouring him. He circled the machine twice, toeing it with his shoe. The cylinder part rolled easily enough, it was the cord that caused Sherlock trouble. He’d invariably get it twisted around a chair or worse a lamp and then all hell broke loose. Sherlock sighed. He picked up the carpet brush and gingerly flipped the machine on.

It all went fine for the first fifteen minutes. Sherlock pushed the carpet brush around the sitting room, dutifully avoiding chairs and lamps and table legs. He ran into trouble, though, when he got around the fireplace. As he bent down to retrieve a paper that had fallen off the side table next to his chair, Sherlock inadvertently lifted the carpet brush just enough that when he stood, the blasted thing landed in the ashes. The hoover began to make ugly grinding and coughing noises, and in his haste to turn the machine off, accidentally pushed the switch too far so that it went into reverse and blew black ash out the nozzle and seemingly everywhere.

Sherlock managed to turn the thing off, then surveyed the damage. It was impossible. Black ash settled onto every conceivable surface, including the computer and Yorick. Sherlock puffed out a small cloud of ash as he coughed into the destroyed sitting room and looked around in dismay.

 

*****

 

Professional cleaning companies were not inexpensive to hire, but they did a fantastic job. Sherlock rushed about, pulling papers out from under the sofa and his chair and shoving them into the bookshelves before the cleaners could decide they were useless rubbish and toss them in the bin. After he had collected what papers he could, he stood in the doorway of the flat, observing the commotion and barking orders to be careful with John’s chair when it had to be moved. It took almost four hours for the flat to go from ‘blackened disaster’ to ‘reasonably livable,' and that was with six people working. When the cleaners were gone, Sherlock sank into his chair, his legs sprawled out in front and arms dangling over the armrests. He normally didn’t sit like this except when bored, but the focused activity of contacting the cleaners, organizing the work and making sure the idiots didn’t break anything or throw his papers in the bin had taken more out of Sherlock than a quadruple homicide by blow dart.

 

*****

 

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open as he heard a key in the lock. No, Sherlock had not been asleep, merely involved in a complex idea that had required intensive concentration. Sherlock had not napped in his chair waiting for John to return home. Sherlock did not move as John opened the door to their flat, hung up his jacket and set his overnight bag underneath. He beamed when he saw Sherlock, and immediately went over to give the detective a quick kiss.

“Wow,” John said, surveying the sitting room, “Sherlock, did you…dust too?” The words were tinged with a bit more incredulity than Sherlock could handle.

“Of course,” Sherlock snapped, pulling his legs up to the chair and folding his arms across his chest. John glanced sideways out of the corner of his eye.

“Mrs. Hudson never called me…” John prompted, which received an eye roll from the detective.

“Mrs. Hudson is deaf as a post when she’s asleep,” Sherlock said, not without affection.

“Good thing too,” John said, and chuckled as the tips of Sherlock’s ears turned a bit pink.

“Yes, well, I’m glad you’re home John. Incredibly boring when you’re not here.”

“I missed you too,” John said, translating and pulling the detective in for a much more serious kiss that explained exactly how much the doctor had missed Sherlock, even if he was only away for a day.

“Knock, knock you two,” Mrs. Hudson rapped on the door frame as she poked her head in the flat. “Sherlock, I found this in the dustbin. What on earth were you up to?”

Mrs. Hudson deposited the hoover, which was really unsalvageable after being filled with fireplace ash, on the threshold of the flat. John gave Sherlock a very pointed expression that said, “you need to tell me this story now, and you will be replacing the hoover.”

“Ah, yes. Just an experiment Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said.

“And who were those men in the flat this morning?” She continued, fretting.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said, directing her back downstairs, and the landlady did not object. She was smirking to herself, however, and Sherlock knew she’d done the whole bit just to get him in trouble, the infuriating woman.

What followed Mrs. Hudson’s exit was an immaculate performance of logic and deduction that thoroughly convinced John that Sherlock should never have to do the hoovering again. The more convincing argument, however, was the 150 pound bill from the cleaners and the necessity of purchasing a new machine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to apologize for being American here. I've basically used 'hoover' as a synonym for 'vacuum,' which is what I assume it is. If I've done it wrong, PLEASE let me know.
> 
> Thanks!
> 
> P.S. - I've always thought Sherlock has had the skull since he was a small boy, and a small boy such as Sherlock would think Yorick is a very clever name for a skull, and it just sort of stuck.


	3. The Adventure of the Widow's Washer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock does his own laundry.

“Not your housekeeper, dear,” Mrs. Hudson told Sherlock for perhaps the seven hundredth time. She loved the man dearly for many reasons, not least of which was getting rid of that horrible excuse of a husband. But he could be so stubborn about some of his ideas. Well, now Mrs. Hudson had had enough of it. Asking her to press his shirts, for goodness sake!

 

*****

 

Sherlock had been less than impressed with the results after his favored laundry service had acquired new owners. They couldn’t remove blood stains, barely got the mud out of his favorite pair of trousers after he’d had to chase a suspect through a rain-soaked park, and were generally worthless at making sure his shirts were pressed precisely to his specifications. It wasn’t that difficult to remember that he preferred medium starch on the cuffs and light starch on the collar, was it? Well, it was now apparently, because every time John had picked up the laundry for the past month it had been wrong in one way or another. John had finally shouted at Sherlock that if the service couldn’t do it right, perhaps he should try doing it himself.

Sherlock had been affronted at the idea at first, he had far more important things to do. But John had stopped taking Sherlock’s laundry to the service, and eventually the detective was left with a single pair of clean pants and two pairs of socks, one of which was a ghastly shade of green and glowed in the dark. Sherlock couldn’t remember ever purchasing those, but they most certainly didn’t belong to John. There was nothing for it but to haul the laundry basket down to Mrs. Hudson’s flat, where there was a washer dryer. John had been asking for one to be installed in 221B for years, but somehow Mrs. Hudson had never remembered. She was gracious enough to allow John to use hers whenever he liked, and Sherlock supposed the invitation was open to him as well, although it hadn’t been said explicitly.

Sherlock poked his head in the kitchen door, listening. Mrs. Hudson was out, of course she was out, it was Tuesday and she had Bridge club. Sherlock set the laundry basket on the floor and shut the door behind him. He opened the refridge, pulled out an apple, and chewed the fruit thoughtfully. The washer dryer was there beside the sink, sitting there comfortably. It couldn’t be that difficult to use. Push a few buttons, toss in the clothes, and wait for the cycle tone to sound.

Sherlock set the half-eaten apple on the table and drug the basket over to the machine.

“Oh, detergent,” Sherlock said to himself, and set about opening all of Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen cupboards searching for it. He finally located a carton of strange blue packets that were labelled laundry detergent. By scrutinizing the package, Sherlock discovered that they were, in fact, pre-measured capsules of detergent. He wasn’t sure why he found that to be clever, as any idiot could measure detergent, but he did. He tossed one of the packets into the washer and began to put clothing in on top, not paying much attention to what went inside. It all needed cleaning, after all, and he hadn’t had any bloody murders to investigate these past few weeks, so there were no bloodstains he needed to worry about.

Sherlock had put nearly the entire basket into the washer. There were only two pairs of pants, a shirt and a pair of trousers in the basket now. Sherlock closed the washer door and inspected the dials and buttons on the top of the machine.

Permanent Press

Normal

Quick Wash

Delicates

Rinse Only

Extra Spin

Sherlock turned the dial to ‘normal’ because there wasn’t anything abnormal, or permanently pressed for that matter, inside. Next, there were buttons marked with a bewildering variety of vague temperature descriptions. Sherlock pulled out his phone, and spent an exhausting thirty minutes reading blogs about the best practices for laundry, none of which touched on the subject of which temperature he should set the machine to when all he was washing were dirty clothes and a couple towels. He did see a few entries dedicated to ‘sorting’ the laundry before it was washed, but neglected to enlighten Sherlock on what that actually entailed, aside from ambiguous designations like ‘brights’ and ‘darks’. In the end, Sherlock settled for ‘hot/cold’ just to cover most available options. He pressed the ‘Start’ button and sat down to finish his apple and wait for the cycle to complete.

 

*****

 

At some point in the last ten minutes of the cycle, the machine began making a very disturbing ‘clunk’ sound as it rotated the inner drum at rapid speed. Sherlock wasn’t certain if he should turn the machine off, but decided against it as the clunking quieted as the drum slowed again. Perhaps that was just the sound it made. Sherlock had gone upstairs to retrieve a book after he’d finished his apple, and was reading it intently when the kitchen door opened again. Sherlock was unconcerned, until he heard a shrill scream, followed by a rather heavy thud.

Sherlock turned to see Mrs. Hudson leaning against the door frame, a hand over her heart and breathing rather shallowly, with tins and a carton of milk spilled over the floor. Sherlock began to rise from his chair, but the landlady waved him off.

“I’m alright Sherlock. You gave me a turn, though. What on earth…”

It was at that moment the cycle tone sounded, and Sherlock turned back to the washer. Mrs. Hudson’s lips pulled into a knowing smile.

“John’s not taking the laundry anymore?” she asked, plucking the tins from the floor and placing them on the table. Sherlock stared at her, the question was such an unexpected one.

“Oh, don’t look so shocked, dear,” Mrs. Hudson continued, chuckling. “He came down about a fortnight ago complaining about you complaining about the laundry service. I told him he was being a bit indulgent.” Mrs. Hudson patted Sherlock on the cheek as she put the last of the tins away above the washer.

Sherlock bristled. Having his laundry cleaned was not ‘indulgent,’ was it? He filed the question away for further contemplation. At the moment, he should remove the washed clothes from the machine and find a place to hang them upstairs to dry. Sherlock removed the last of the dirty clothes from the basket, put the wet ones in, re-set the washer for the few items that hadn’t fit in the first load, and planting an affectionate kiss on Mrs. Hudson’s cheek as he left, carried the clean-but-wet clothes upstairs.

 

*****

 

It wasn’t until Sherlock put on his favorite aubergine shirt that he realized he’d made a serious error. While the shirt would still go on, it certainly would no longer button and the shoulders were too tight.

“John!” Sherlock called, flapping into the sitting room, where John was enjoying tea and the weekend paper.

“’Morning…” John said, not looking up. He had become used to the artificial sense of panic the detective liked to use to get attention.

“John, what is wrong with this shirt?” Sherlock demanded.

“What?”

“This shirt. It’s…too small. Doesn’t fit. What is wrong with it?”

John looked up from his paper to see Sherlock standing, hands on hips, purple shirt undone, looking deliciously disheveled.

“Looks like it shrunk in the wash, darling,” John said, openly appreciating the view by folding his paper and giving the detective his full attention.

“Shrunk?” Sherlock said, his right eye squinting just so, so that John was quite aware of how upset Sherlock really was.

“Yeah,” John replied. “’S what happens when you wash things in hot water.”

“Why is that not included in the instructions?” Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes at his partner, trying to make the information fit within the framework he’d already built about laundry.

“Um, it does? On the tag, usually.”

“There are odd symbols on the tag,” Sherlock acknowledged, “But I have yet to decipher the code.”

John’s mouth fell open a bit, then pinched the bridge of his nose. Of course it would be a code instead of laundering instructions. Of course. That’s just how Sherlock’s mind worked.

“Right,” John said, pushing himself out of his chair, abandoning the tea and paper. “Off with it, then.”

Sherlock pulled the shirt off and handed it to John without a word. John pulled the instructions tag out from the edge of garment.

“Look, here, this one is ‘cold water wash,’ and this is ‘warm iron.’”

“How do you know this?” Sherlock asked, genuinely interested.

“Because in my family you started washing your own clothes when you were eight,” John replied laughing, “Instead of forty-eight.”

Sherlock snatched the shirt out of John’s hands, frowning. John grinned lopsidedly, his hand reaching out to touch the exposed skin of Sherlock’s chest. The man may be the most intelligent John had ever met, but he was hopeless when it came to the ordinary, everyday routine of life. John ran his fingers over Sherlock’s perfect ivory skin, the only mar on the surface a small round scar. It was an eternal reminder of John’s attempt to force himself, and Sherlock by association, into something he had perceived as normal. That attempt was best forgotten, and it had been years now since the insistent pang of guilt had reared its ugly head.

Sherlock stilled as John’s hand fluttered over the scar, and the detective knew what he was thinking about. It would not do. Best to re-direct the attention. And the best way Sherlock had discovered to do this was to kiss the doctor, which he proceeded to do, rather more thoroughly than he intended.

Both men had long since forgiven each other for the transgressions that had pulled them apart, and neither wanted to dwell on it now. Sherlock pulled John closer, pressing his lips more insistently against the detective’s and sliding one hand underneath John’s ubiquitous jumper, causing him to murmur into the kiss. John’s arms wrapped around Sherlock, and he grabbed a handful of arse, causing Sherlock to jump just enough to be completely adorable.

The kiss ended gently, and John regarded Sherlock with an expression that spoke of amazement, adoration, and want. It made fire stir in the detective’s belly and he grabbed John’s arm and drug him toward the bedroom, tossing the ruined shirt over the doctor’s chair as they retreated from the sitting room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it wasn't QUITE as fluffy, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway~!


	4. The Mystery of the Missing Memory Card

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finds something unexpected when he sweeps up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER IS LEMON FRESH. Just so you're aware.

Sherlock perched on a stool in front of his microscope. He’d been there since before John left for surgery, and hadn’t moved except to remove a severed thumb from the refridge, slice off about six pieces and scrape under the nail, then replace the thumb. That had been perhaps three hours ago. There was a mug of tea John had made for the detective before he’d left that morning, and it sat untouched near Sherlock’s left elbow.

“No. No, no, that’s not right,” Sherlock muttered to himself, or possibly to Yorick sitting on the mantelpiece. The blood in his samples was not coagulating correctly, and he wondered if Molly herself had collected the digit or if one of the assistants had. Probably an assistant. Molly wouldn’t allow one of his samples to become contaminated. He pulled the slide out and replaced it with the nail scrapings, adjusting the focus until he had the best view.

“Damn!” Sherlock said after he’d squinted into the lens for a full minute. He brought his hand down hard on the table, causing three slides and the tea mug to crash to the floor, breaking into about six million different pieces.

“Damn,” the detective said again, watching as the tea spread across the floor, pooling in the small imperfections in the kitchen floor. Sherlock studied the liquid, it could be useful for determining timelines. He proceeded to climb off the stool and sit on the floor, leaning in as closely as he could without feeling as though he was altering the experiment. Watching tea dry was extremely enlightening.

 

*****

 

“Sherlock?” John called as he walked in the door, home from surgery. There was no response.

“Sherlock” John tried again, first checking the sofa and then turning the corner into the kitchen, where he nearly tripped over the detective as he sat, absorbed in his accidental experiment. John looked at the table, then at the floor, taking in the broken mug and brown stains that had dried in little lines and puddles across nearly the entire kitchen. He sighed and debated shouting just to make himself feel better, but decided against it. It wouldn’t do any good and he’d get a sore throat in the bargain, because Sherlock would inevitably say something to escalate the incident and John did not need a row tonight. Surgery had been full of inconsequential patient progress appointments, and there was nothing that made John more tired than feeling as though he was wasting his time.

“Just… just clean it up when you’re done, yeah?” he said finally, turning away from the kitchen and pulling up the Chinese delivery on his phone, settling in to read the paper and then work on his blog, since Sherlock would probably not be very conversational. Too bad, because John could use the company, even if he was going to be insulted in the process.

The food arrived, enough for two, but John was certain that Sherlock’s share would go in the refridge as long as there was room between the thumb and femur that Sherlock had brought back from Bart’s the other day. He instinctively worried about the detective’s eating habits, but could do little to alter them aside from threatening a vitamin drip every few days.

John watched the telly for an hour or so, stretched and yawned a little too loudly, but Sherlock had barely moved since John had walked in the door. John clicked the telly off, dropped a quick kiss on the top of the detective’s head, and shuffled off to the bedroom. He had another long day at the clinic tomorrow, and he couldn’t wait around for Sherlock to finish whatever he was doing. It could take days.

 

*****

 

Some time around four in the morning, Sherlock stood, cracked his neck and stretched his arms behind his head as far as they could go.

“Goodnight, John,” Sherlock said, then looked around. John was not in the sitting room, and the only light on was the one over the table in the kitchen. Sherlock had missed a few hours, then. He shrugged, wandering off to the bedroom himself. Not that he would sleep at this point, but he could at least lie next to his doctor for a couple hours. Strange how the proximity of John made a marked improvement on his mental acuity under most circumstances. Conductor of light, indeed. Sherlock smiled to himself as he clicked the kitchen light off.

 

*****

 

Sherlock stared at the tea-stained floor the next morning, wondering where on earth he should begin. The tea was dry, so sopping up the mess with a towel, as he normally would have, was not an option. That meant he would have to apply some sort of liquid to the mess so it could be sopped up. Which, if memory served, meant mopping. Sherlock rummaged in a cupboard for a few minutes, pulling out the hoover so he could reach the bucket and mop behind it. Sherlock frowned, but had a general knowledge of how this worked. He’d seen employees using these countless times at Bart’s. Sherlock opened all the other cupboards in the kitchen, looking for some kind of floor soap. He finally discovered a bottle marked ‘Mop-n-Glo’ which he assumed was meant to clean floors, despite its atrocious grammar and misspelling. He squirted an area experimentally, then swiped the mop over it. The tea came up wonderfully, but the glass just got pushed around.

There was nothing for it but the broom, then. Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the thought, but John was expecting him to have this cleaned up, and Sherlock was not expecting to spend the night alone on the sofa, which is what would happen if the kitchen was in this state when the doctor came home. He sighed heavily and pulled the broom out of the cupboard where he’d found the mop. Sweeping up the large pieces was fairly straightforward, but Sherlock found that there were tiny, almost microscopic pieces of glass everywhere. He soon discovered that he would have to sweep underneath everything to make sure he didn’t leave any pieces. Getting a cut on one’s foot was annoying as well as more than a bit painful.

Sherlock stuck the broom underneath the buffet that really served as storage for his experimental equipment. As he drug out the broom, a small blue square caught his attention. It was a memory card, but he couldn’t place where it had come from. He studied it for nearly five minutes. There was no recollection of this particular memory card anywhere. Sherlock debated leaving his task immediately to investigate this memory card. It was a mystery, and the urge to abandon the tea to its own devices on the floor was strong. Too strong, in fact, and the detective dropped the broom where he stood and walked over John’s chair and flopped into his own, pulling his computer into his lap and opening it with a flourish. He popped the memory card into the reader and tapped the armrest impatiently as it loaded.

There was a single folder on the memory card labelled ‘photos,’ vaguely enough. But was not vague were the photos inside the folder. The first was familiar, showing a very naked John Watson posing with their old hoover. Sherlock’s lips quirked, amusement evident. Sherlock had wondered what the promised photo had contained, and it appeared that his curiosity on that point would be sated. As he opened the second photo, he nearly dropped his laptop. There was John, spread-eagle in Sherlock’s chair, his hand around his very erect cock, grinning seductively at the camera. The photo started a slow-burn low in Sherlock’s body that spread fire outward, and Sherlock could feel his cheeks flush and eyes dilate with arousal. But this was not the only photo in the folder, and if Sherlock was anything, he was curious to a fault.

The next was the same pose, but John had his head flung back, eyes closed, obviously enjoying himself. Sherlock felt his own erection growing as he surveyed this image, and was incredibly frustrated that it was only eleven in the morning and John wouldn’t be home until after six that evening. Sherlock closed the computer with a snap, unwilling to subject himself to that frustration when he knew that John wouldn’t compromise tonight regardless of how Sherlock begged.

But… Well, John couldn’t be mad if the kitchen floor was clean. Sherlock all but threw the laptop aside, bounding out of his chair with renewed purpose. He held the mop in one hand and the bottle of cleaner in the other and proceeded to speed-mop the floor, neglecting to read the instructions that the floor should be rinsed afterward.

 

*****

 

John came home that evening to a completely empty sitting room. The kitchen was equally deserted, but John did notice that the broken glass and tea had been cleaned up, so at least Sherlock had kept his end of the bargain. But where the detective was now was a mystery. John kicked out of his shoes and padded into the kitchen in stocking feet to put the kettle on for a cuppa.

John was only three steps into the kitchen when he felt his sock stick to the floor. He frowned and stared at the sock in confusion before he pulled his foot up, the sock remaining on the floor and his foot now bare. Cautiously, John placed his bare foot down on the floor and pulled up on the other foot, and the sock stuck to the floor there, too. John was now barefoot and could feel the gummy film on the floor. It didn’t make sense, the floor looked perfectly clean, Sherlock had even swept up the glass. But the floor was obviously covered in something, because John could barely peel his feet off the floor. And where the hell was Sherlock? Hiding somewhere, taking notes on the effect of this shit on socks, most likely.

“SHERLOCK,” John shouted, slowly and carefully peeling his feet off the floor and walking toward the bedroom. Christ, the whole kitchen’s like this. What the hell? John thought as he slowly but surely made his way past the refridge into the short hall that led to the bedroom.

He paused as he heard a low groan emanating from the bedroom. Without thinking, John took off, pulling his feet off the sticky floor with enough force that it felt like he was peeling away layers of skin. He was relieved when he made it to the hallway and the gummy floor ceased as well. He was halfway down the short hall when another groan resonated from the bedroom. John dashed the last few steps to the bedroom door and flung it open, hanging onto the door frame and pulling in a deep breath.

Sherlock lay on the bed naked, duvet puddled on the floor forgotten. His computer was propped open beside him casting a strange bluish glow over the detective. Sherlock’s eyes were squeezed shut, and his nostrils flared with every exhalation as his hand worked feverishly at his erection. The display was fucking gorgeous, and John watched for a few moments before padding over on silent feet.

Sherlock’s eyes flew open as he felt another hand wrap around his cock. John chuckled softly, and Sherlock stared at him, as though he couldn’t quite believe he was there. John knelt on the bed and leaned over the computer to kiss the detective soundly. As the kiss broke, John turned his head and noticed what was on the computer.

“Ah. I was wondering where that had gone,” he said before snapping the computer shut and depositing it on the floor. “Real thing’s better anyway, yeah?” John smirked and tugged gently on Sherlock’s erection.

“Obviously,” Sherlock said, sliding his hands under John’s jumper and claiming the doctor’s lips in another heated kiss.

 

*****

 

John had forgotten completely that his socks had stuck to the kitchen floor until he tried to make tea the next morning. It only took one single step onto the gummy floor to bring his irritation from the night before to full bloom.

“What the hell did you do to the floor?” John asked as Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, hair damp from shower with a towel around his waist.

“I cleaned it, as requested,” Sherlock explained in a haughty voice.

“Then why are my socks stuck to it?”

Sherlock looked over John’s shoulder into the kitchen, and focused on the socks in question.

“Haven’t the foggiest,” Sherlock replied shrugging. It wasn’t worth the detective’s time to figure it out at the moment.

“You’re going to find out. Today.”

John padded back down the hall to the bedroom without waiting for Sherlock’s reaction and plucked a pair of socks from the chest of drawers and carried them across the kitchen, grimacing at the sticky, disgusting floor. He couldn’t even have a decent cuppa because he couldn’t stand being in the kitchen long enough to make it. He’d settle for a coffee on the way to surgery.

“Yes, darling,” Sherlock said, but the dripping sarcasm was completely missing. John looked at the detective, who smiled at him and winked before he shut the bedroom door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to 1butterfly_grl1 for the great prompt.
> 
> This'll be the last installment for a while, as I'm going on vacation this week. I'll be back next Monday, hopefully with a drabble every two days, as I've been trying to maintain here.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!!


	5. The Adventure of the Sticky Trolley Wheel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock does the shopping.

John could not go get the milk. Sherlock knew John could not go get the milk because he was still sleeping on the sofa. John was sleeping on the sofa because he had broken his ankle jumping from a fire escape. He had broken his ankle jumping from a fire escape chasing a suspect into Lestrade’s ambush. Which had worked exactly as Sherlock had expected, except for the broken ankle bit. So John could not go get the milk. Sherlock sighed, shoved his wallet into his back pocket and pulled on his coat.

 

*****

 

John had written a list:

-    Earl Grey Tea

-    Milk

-    Packet of Ginger Nuts

-    Jam

 

Sherlock scowled at the list and pulled a trolley from the queue. He immediately regretted that decision. The trolley had a sticky wheel that would not, regardless of Sherlock’s coaxing, swivel to point in the right direction. It shimmied, it spun, but it would not behave in the correct way at all. It was about to drive the detective up the proverbial wall. He was so distracted by the misbehaving wheel that he nearly upset another customer’s trolley as he was maneuvering his own. He was fairly certain after the fact that he was not supposed to scowl at her, but it was too late for that.

He found the tea without incident and flipped it into the trolley. He pushed it forward a few feet, and the wheel flipped around so fast it rattled the whole contraption. Sherlock’s scowl grew fiercer and he shook the thing a few times to try and straighten the wheel. It was disinclined to acquiesce to his request.

The milk was also unproblematic to locate, as there was a huge sign above its location. The problem occurred as he was pushing the damned trolley to the back of the shop. Since there was no weight in the basket, the wheel could not be pushed into submission, and insisted that Sherlock steer to the right perpetually. He contemplated returning to the queue for another, but noticed that over fifty per cent of the other trolleys also had comparable sticky wheels, so he calculated his odds of procuring a non-sticky-wheeled trolley. They were not in his favor. Therefore, he persisted in pushing the naughty thing through the shop.

As he attempted to turn left around the next aisle to get to the dairy case, the cart took an alarming turn to the right, and Sherlock just managed to avoid plowing into a display of ginger nuts. He deftly flipped a packet into the basket. He was going to do this. He only had to pull the milk out of the case and find the jam. He could put up with the trolley for that long. The shop wasn’t that big. And then he could successfully say he’d done the shopping. Once. But still.

Milk acquired, he turned around to search for the jam, and that’s when everything went to hell. Sherlock was still not certain how the whole thing had happened, but as he turned the trolley around to look at the aisle markers, it tipped, sending the milk, biscuits, and tea sailing across the floor. The milk slid into a shelf and basically exploded as it hit. The biscuit and tea packets survived intact, but Sherlock knew that the ginger nuts inside were mere crumbs. He stared at the mess for a few moments, a list of acceptable actions scrolling through his mind. His first instinct was to casually right his trolley and replace his items, however that was distinctly not going to work, seeing as how there were now two people who were standing at the ends of their aisles, staring. The stationary shoppers brought more shoppers around, wondering what was going on, and this in turn brought an employee around the corner, who scurried off almost immediately to retrieve a mop and bucket. Sherlock figured at that point he could safely retrieve his tea and rattle away from the whole mess, however, just then the shop manager came out.

“What’s all this, then?” he asked, sniffing and wiping his already red nose with a handkerchief. Allergies were a given, obvious really. Had a cat at home, which appeared to be the only other living thing in his flat, but could possibly be recently divorced if the indent on his ring finger was anything to go by. Also looked as though he’d had some heart trouble, but perhaps that was just the indigestion from a bad breakfast. His trousers and shirt were obviously uniform issue, but looked new, so he hadn’t transferred here, it was a promotion, from produce perhaps.

“Your trolleys need some attention,” Sherlock began. When the man began to bluster, Sherlock cut in. “I was attempting to turn this one ‘round when it careened out of control and smashed the milk into that shelf. I find the quality of your trolleys seriously lacking and will be reporting it.”

The man’s demeanor changed instantly when Sherlock implied he was an assessor.

“I’m so sorry, sir. I’ll get to that right away. Here, let me help you with your trolley. Can I get you a different one? Here’s another carton of milk, and I see you had some biscuits and tea as well. Is there anything else you needed?”

Sherlock grinned as he was guided personally through the store by the now-obsequious manager. Sherlock pondered over the jam choice for a few moments, wondering if John would like something special, but ended up with blackberry as usual. He paid, and bags in hand returned to 221B as a triumphant conqueror returning to his castle.

 

*****

 

John was still in his chair when Sherlock returned, watching something on the telly that Sherlock was absolutely certain involved sports. Sherlock was a bit put out by the surprised look John gave him when he returned with everything on the list.

“Just because I dislike doing the shopping does not mean I am completely incapable,” Sherlock stated flatly as he pushed a jar of ears aside to make room for the milk in the refridge.

“Good, you can go your share from now on.”

“What part of ‘dislike,’ did you not understand?”

“The part where I have a broken ankle and still need to eat,” John replied. “Did you get the ginger nuts?”

Sherlock tossed the packet to John as he re-entered the lounge, and flopped into his own chair. John caught the packet deftly, popped the end open and pulled one out. He grinned.

“Thank you,” John said sincerely, meeting the detective’s eyes. Sherlock suddenly felt very self-conscious and shifted in his chair.

“Y-you’re welcome,” he replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a bit late... life ruins our best intentions. Hope you like it!


	6. The Problem with the Rubbish Bins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock actually doesn't mind taking out the rubbish.

If there was one chore Sherlock Holmes never complained about it was emptying the rubbish bins. John did not know why this, of all possible things, was always accomplished the day before the bin truck rumbled down the alley behind 221B, but he was grateful there was at least one thing he didn’t have to nag, complain, or cajole Sherlock into doing. Sherlock, for his part, never acknowledged John’s curiosity at his singular exception to doing housework of any kind.

 

*****

 

It was Tuesday evening, Mrs. Hudson was out to her bridge club with Mrs. Featherstone, John had just returned from the surgery, and Sherlock was busy collecting all the rubbish out of the bins in both theirs and Mrs. Hudson’s flat. Bin day was Wednesday. Sherlock’s energy in collecting the rubbish bordered on manic. He flew around the flat, pulling the liners out of the various bins with relish and tying them all up and setting them near the stairs. Sherlock knew exactly what was in each of the liners. There were empty envelopes and advertisements from the lounge, banana peels, old tea, a couple of pieces of bread that had gone moldy, a crisp bag, and two rat brains that had not yielded the information Sherlock had been hoping for from the kitchen, and cotton buds and condom wrappers from the loo. Sherlock had told John he’d been throwing away the actual condoms, but he’d had an experiment in mind for them and had taken them to Bart’s to refrigerate until he had his methodology confirmed.

He hoisted the liners, carefully holding them away from his trousers as he descended the stairs and exited through the alley door to put the liners in dustbins. It was as he replaced the lid to the dustbin that he saw them: a complete set of false teeth sitting neatly in the middle of the alley as though they had sprouted there. Normally, Sherlock would have gone through the rubbish of the neighbors to make sure there were no major changes in habit to warrant suspicion, but the false teeth were too odd to pass up and he suddenly didn’t care at all about what was in Mrs. Turner’s bins. Sherlock was consumed with curiosity about those damn false teeth.

He rummaged around in his trouser pocket until he realised that he’d left his nitrile gloves in his Belstaff, and cursed silently. The weather had been warm, and John had taken to leaving the windows open when he was home, which he was. Sherlock smiled.

“JOHN!” Sherlock bellowed, circling the false teeth like a great cat.

John appeared at the open window, and Sherlock stopped moving.

“I need my exam gloves,” Sherlock said. John sighed heavily and rolled his eyes.

“So come and get them.”

“Can’t. I have some…evidence here that I don’t want to leave at the moment.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose, squinting. “Evidence?”

“Yes, so I need my gloves.”

John glanced heavenward and pushed himself back into the apartment. He emerged from the alley door a few moments later, carrying two pair of exam gloves. Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at the second pair, but said nothing. John was curious in his own way.

“Alright, what evidence did you find in the alley?” John asked, pulling on his own gloves.

Sherlock said nothing, but pointed to the false teeth sitting serenely on the dirty pavement.

“Dentures,” John said. It wasn’t a question, really, but Sherlock knew John well enough to know he expected an explanation.

“They obviously do not belong to Mrs. Hudson, she doesn’t use them. I have never come across rubbish associated with denture use in our alley before, and no one on our block has moved recently, so Mrs. Turner is also out as a possible owner. It’s possible that someone in the network dropped them here, but I’m not expecting a message from them, and they’ve never communicated via false teeth before, nor are there indications that anyone has passed through the alley in the past thirty minutes. The teeth haven’t been there much longer than that or they’d have gotten rained on. Where did they come from? And why are they sitting neatly in the center of our alley?”

Sherlock knelt next to the teeth, peering at them from pavement level as John stood back and watched. It was John’s favorite part of working with Sherlock; watching him work out what had happened from seemingly nothing. Sherlock opened the dentures and peered at the teeth, wiping one finger along the molars. Then he turned them over in his hand, observing them so acutely that John swore he could hear the thoughts in the detective’s head. Suddenly, Sherlock leapt up, studying the wall opposite their bins, pulling out his pocket magnifier and going over the surface minutely. John knew better by this time than to interrupt the detective when he was working. While Sherlock enjoyed an audience, if he wasn’t spouting his deductions, it was better to wait to ask what the bloody hell was going on.

“Ah!” Sherlock said suddenly and tore off down the alley with John at his heels, holding the dentures out in front of him like a compass. John had the crazy notion of dentures pointing the way to true north for a moment as they emerged from the alley and Sherlock began counting windows down Baker Street, stopping two buildings to the north. The building itself was unremarkable, well unremarkable to John at any rate. Simple brick facade, well cared for. Sherlock studied the intercom buttons near the entrance and pressed one. He was answered by a young-sounding male voice.

“Did you lose your dentures?” Sherlock asked without preamble. There was a good deal of stuttering on the other side of the speaker, and then the door buzzed open and the detective held the door open for John as the pair ascended to the second floor. Sherlock knocked on the door of the flat he’d buzzed and it was immediately opened by a young man, no older than twenty five.

“Thanks for finding the teeth,” the man said as he held his hand out through the opening in the door without removing the security chain. “How’d you know they belonged up here?”

“Simple, really,” Sherlock began, and John braced himself. “The dentures are relatively new, and have none of the obvious wear patterns of well-used teeth, therefore when I saw that one of the teeth was chipped, as well as having a gouge in the rear of the upper palate, I knew they had to have been thrown, with great force, from a window. I found the brick that had caused the gouge in the palate, calculated the trajectory of the teeth, and determined that this was the most likely flat for them to have come from."

John blinked. Sherlock had just gone through a deduction without so much as a single insult or insinuation of idiocy. 

“Charlie?” an old man’s voice echoed from inside.

“Just a minute, Grandad,” Charlie replied, coloring visibly.

Sherlock immediately handed over the teeth, turned and left the building, walking contemplatively back to 221B.

 

*****

 

“Want to walk me through it?” John asked later that evening. Sherlock had been unusually subdued since they’d returned the teeth earlier that day.

“If you wish,” Sherlock said, setting his violin into its case and pretzeling himself into his armchair.

“You explained to that kid how you figured out where the teeth came from. What happened then?”

“Most people with at least an average intelligence do not chuck their dentures out the window. Obviously the dentures did not belong to Charlie, the young man, but to his grandfather. There are perhaps two or three reasons why an elderly person would want to throw their false teeth out the window, but since Charlie was embarrassed that we’d known his grandfather was in the flat to begin with, that leaves one: Alzheimer's. Not progressed enough that he’d be eligible for care, but too far along to yet live on his own. Charlie’s parents are either dead or incompetent, and Charlie was raised by his grandfather. The grandfather had a violent outburst, which is a typical symptom of the disease, and threw his dentures, the closest thing he had at hand, at Charlie. They’d bounced quite a ways down the alley to rest near our bins, and were not visible from the rear windows of Charlie’s flat.”

“Right. Right, okay,” John said. And then it dawned on him. Alzheimer’s. Losing control over your mind, losing your _memories_. Thinking about the possibility had shaken the detective. John stood slowly and went to stand behind Sherlock’s chair. He bent and put his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders. He kissed the detective gently on the cheek.

“I’ll be here no matter what happens, okay? We’ll both be doddering old fools in a home before I leave you.”

“But I could lose my mind,” Sherlock whispered, his voice rough with suppressed emotion.

“Yep,” John said. He knew there was no use muttering the usual platitudes at Sherlock. It didn’t work. “You could. I could. Mycroft, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson. Anybody. I wish there was a way to figure out who would be affected, but there isn’t. And Sherlock, you’ll still be _you_ under there, somewhere, even if you can’t remember my name. And I will _always_ love you.”

“Sentiment is an awfully complicated thing,” Sherlock said after a few moments. “Thank you.”

John suppressed a sigh, kissed the detective on his cheek a bit more cheerfully than he was actually feeling, and then ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair a couple times. He picked up the newspaper and settled in on the couch. Half an hour later, he felt the couch sag under Sherlock’s weight, and the detective laid his head in John’s lap, fingers steepled under his nose. John folded the paper so it wouldn’t annoy Sherlock, and continued reading, holding the paper in one hand and absently running his fingers through the detective’s hair. Sherlock sighed and John could feel him relax. The detective might never say it, but John knew; he was loved by the most amazing, infuriating, insufferable arsehole that he had the misfortune of knowing. And it made the doctor happier than he’d known he could be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The false teeth idea came from a short section in A Case of Identity from ACD canon. The rest is mine.


	7. The Shelf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock hangs a shelf...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is quite a bit different, I hope you like it.

Neither of them wanted to leave Baker Street. Something about packing up the boxes, watching as the furniture was loaded into a lorry, gave both men a sense of melancholy. But John had trouble getting up the stairs anymore, and the new landlady had just about gotten on Sherlock’s last nerve. Well, they thought of her as the new landlady. She’d taken over Mrs. Hudson’s building almost six years ago, now. Sherlock had taken an immediate and intense dislike to her, and John really didn’t blame him. Encouraged him, occasionally, to make her uncomfortable. While they’d grown old, they still enjoyed a bit of juvenile humor every now and again.

Sherlock had finally hung up the earhat for good and all. Literally hung up the earhat, with a nail straight through it into the wall. John had laughed at the time, but as the days rolled on and there were no strangers in the flat, no ‘little problems,’ he had taken to sitting in his chair staring at it. He knew they were too old for such things, but he missed it all the same. Now they were leaving Baker Street. Maybe it would be easier in Sussex, John thought. He wouldn’t be expecting clients there.

 

*****

 

They’d decided on Sussex because it was still within easy distance to London and the Holmes family had a cottage there, not on the sea but close enough to smell the salt when the wind was right. John had fallen in love with the place when they’d visited on a whim nearly thirty years ago. Sherlock would never forget. It had been after that awful mess with Mary, when John was beside himself with grief and confusion, and nothing Sherlock did seemed to help. Of course, comforting the grieving had never really been Sherlock’s strong point, he’d left it to John or Greg or anybody else that was handy. And when John had even refused outright to visit a crime scene Sherlock had been at his wits' end. It wasn’t until Mummy had basically drug Sherlock off by the ear and told him to get that man out of London that Sherlock had realised the problem. And so he’d bundled John onto a train, and taken him to the cottage. John hadn’t protested, or even questioned what the detective was about, and that had frightened Sherlock even more. An angry outburst or at least some protestation was expected.

The new scenery and fresh air helped John recover. It wasn’t a week before he’d actually cracked his first smile in months, and three days after that he’d laughed and oh how Sherlock had missed that laugh. They’d spent almost a month there in Sussex, and Sherlock had never been so completely _not bored_ by the everyday nuances of life. Perhaps it was because he was consumed with ensuring that John was slowly, ever so slowly, surfacing out of his despair. It didn’t matter. Things which would have normally irritated the detective beyond his ability to cope seemed insignificant. The detective knew it was related to the massive amounts of dopamine he knew were being dumped into his bloodstream, but for the first time he was disinterested in the chemistry of it. He knew the chemistry, knew the physiology behind what was happening, and he _didn’t care_. Mycroft had been right, caring wasn’t an advantage, but not in the way he’d implied.

 

*****

 

John and Sherlock Holmes stood in the doorway to 221B for the last time. The bullet holes in the wall had been fixed, the yellow smiley removed with the wallpaper. Yorick had already been packed, but John had hidden the Cluedo board beside the refridge and had made sure it wasn’t in the moving van. The whole flat was empty. John had never seen it this way, and he sighed.

“Alright, love?” Sherlock asked, resting his arm across the slightly stooped shoulders of his husband.

“Yeah, yeah fine.” John replied, sniffing and pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe across his nose. He shoved the handkerchief back into his pocket more forcefully than was necessary and leaned on his cane. His leg had finally gone bad for real, and it irritated him particularly when it rained. It wasn’t raining now, but it could start any minute, the air was full of the smell of it.

“This is the end, then,” Sherlock murmured thoughtfully, running his hand over the door frame and finding the nick he’d made fighting off a Bedouin warrior. He noticed that the renovators had missed many small details like this and he supposed that his mark would always be left in the flat.

“No, not the end,” John said, turning to start laboriously down the stairs. “It’s still Sherlock and John, isn’t it? As long as we’re together the game will never be over completely.”

Sherlock smiled, following the doctor down the stairs and out to the waiting taxi.

 

*****

 

It had taken the two men somewhat longer than anticipated to get all their boxes unpacked, and there were still a few lingering here and there around the cottage even now, a month on into their retirement. Sherlock had changed so much over the years. Not nearly so prickly, no more desperate searching for something, anything to occupy his mind for more than thirty seconds. Age had mellowed the detective, and the doctor for that matter. They’d both outlived enough danger to last a lifetime. But…but. John still dreamt of running through darkened streets beside a man in a Belstaff coat and blue scarf. His hair was more salt than pepper these days, but he could still out-think men half his age and did on a regular basis.

John opened a box at random in the study, where most of their unopened boxes had ended up, and pulled out a little golden cat with one paw raised. The paw didn’t wave anymore, but neither Sherlock nor John could part with it. John chuckled at the perceptiveness of the little Chinese woman, even if he hadn’t appreciated it at the time. John set the cat aside and then pulled out the Cluedo box. John squinted at it in disbelief. How in God’s name did this get from 221B to here? Wasn’t it beside the refridge when they’d left? Did the new tenants find it and send it on via their landlady? John glared at it. He’d have to hide it, or better yet burn it. He shoved the game back into the packing box it came out of and peered inside. The box was full of random things, which at first glance didn’t seem to really belong together, but upon closer inspection were a very specific collection.

A small glass bottle with a screw cap

The lucky cat

A Vermeer print

Six comic books

An empty sugar bowl

Diamond cufflinks and a tie pin

An ancient eyeliner pencil and dozens more odd trinkets that would mean absolutely nothing to anyone but John. John unpacked them all and set them up carefully in a row, admiring the collection and allowing the memories to wash over him.

Gladstone came nosing into the room a few minutes later, snuffling along the floor getting used to all the new smells. John rubbed behind the bulldog’s ears and his tongue lolled to the side, a great string of drool leaking from the corner of his mouth. John smiled at the dog, who promptly rolled onto his side, begging for a belly rub, which was, of course, provided.

“What is this?” Sherlock’s resonant baritone startled John.

“I’m pretty sure it’s a belly rub, love,” John said, smirking.

“No, on the desk here…”

“Oh, just a bit of unpacking,” John said and colored a bit. His collection hadn’t really been a secret, it wasn’t possible to keep secrets from Sherlock at any rate, but they’d never talked about it in all the years they’d spent together.

“Hmm…” Sherlock stepped toward the desk and picked up the eyeliner pencil first. “Is this…” the question was completed in his eyes. John nodded in response.

“I wish there was something a bit more impressive to represent the worst-best day of my life, but there it is.”

“The diamond cufflinks,” Sherlock said, a soft smile touching his lips. “Those are the ones you made me wear when we were married. I thought they’d looked familiar even then.”

John colored visibly at that. He knew Sherlock didn’t want to be a hero, and he really wasn’t, but John couldn’t help it. Love was stupid like that sometimes. And even though Sherlock had been cleared, it was never the same. The ‘hero’ had been sucked out of him. But just for that moment, for that brief time, the world had seen the man John knew.

“Well, I wasn’t going to pawn them, they were a gift,” John said instead.

“You’ve always been better at sentiment,” Sherlock said, placing the cufflinks back inside the little cotton-lined box.

“You’re not so bad yourself anymore,” John said, pushing himself up off the floor and groaning when his back and his leg protested. No matter how many times he hurt himself doing stupid things like kneeling on the floor, he always forgot he was no longer a young man. Gladstone huffed, turned in a circle, and lay down in the little square of sunlight that was pouring through the study window. There was a hand at his elbow as John staggered forward a bit as his joints protested moving. John chuckled. “See?”

“That’s not sentiment, that’s self-interest. I have no desire to drive to hospital this afternoon should you bash your head on that desk,” Sherlock insisted, and John laughed. That game, at least, had not changed. John knew that Sherlock loved him with his entire being, but would not _ever_ just say so. Not when he was sober, at any rate.

 

*****

 

_Twenty-five years ago…_

 

Sherlock slouched in his chair, a tumbler of scotch in one hand and a long thin stick in the other. John was seated across a low table, watching the detective intently. Between them was a jumble of sticks of various colors. Sherlock had just pulled one without disturbing the surrounding pile and was looking rather pleased with himself.

“This…this is a game I like,” he said, the spaces between his words a little blurry. He touched a yellow stick and the blue one next to it wiggled a bit.

“Finally,” John said, choosing a red stick and slowly pulling it out of the pile. It was going perfectly until two yellow sticks suddenly shifted, and he had to let go.

“Elements of skill with a touch of chance. I wonder if Mycroft has played this?” Sherlock mused as he pulled another stick out of the pile perfectly.

“Probably. He probably wins at it, too,” John replied, watching Sherlock pull yet another stick out of the pile and setting it aside.

“Mmm,” Sherlock said, plucking a green stick off the top of the pile and setting it alongside the others.

“More scotch?” John asked, swishing the bottle at him. John had found the game at a little shop near their last crime scene, and had been waiting for the right time to use it. Turned out, that crime scene was the last one they’d seen for a week and Sherlock had been going just a bit stir crazy. The pair had been playing pick-up sticks since about three o’clock that afternoon, and it was nearly nine. John had brought out the scotch two hours ago for his own sanity, but Sherlock had been the one to drink it. John had had exactly two shots worth. He’d not kept track of Sherlock’s drinks, but it was a great deal more than two.

The detective nodded, and John poured two more fingers of scotch into his glass. This was not the first time Sherlock had been deliberately drunk, but it was the first time he’d been deliberately drunk for no discernible reason. Not that John was all that terrific at deducing the detective, matter of fact he was downright shit at it, but there was no reason John could tell for Sherlock to be drunk aside from the fact that John kept filling his glass. He was a grown man, he could say no. John took the opportunity to refill his own glass for the third time, swallowing half of it at a go and replacing the missing alcohol immediately.

Okay, so perhaps he’d had a bit more to drink than two shots. He was feeling delightfully lightheaded, which wasn’t helping his game at all but made it so much easier to deal with. Sherlock was removing the seventh stick in a row from the pile when his elbow slipped and sent his hand crashing through the pile of sticks, scattering them to the far corners of the sitting room. Sherlock sat up, blinking as though he hadn’t quite understood what had just happened. He then drained his scotch, set the tumbler down on the table and began scrabbling underneath it for the sticks.

“Come on, John, we’ve got to pick these up! I was winning!” Sherlock was on his hands and knees, reaching under the table. John stopped laughing long enough to set his own drink down. He also began plucking sticks from the floor around the coffee table. _Jesus, how many of these things were in the set, six hundred?_

John came up with a handful just as Sherlock rose to his knees. They were no more than three inches apart, and Sherlock froze as he saw John there, right next to him. The doctor could feel Sherlock still, and he met the detective’s eyes, a silent question in his own. This time, John promised himself, this time he wasn’t going to fuck it up with doubts or half-lies. Sherlock ran his tongue over his lower lip, and John watched it leave a glistening wet trail that he wanted to taste. Their eyes met again, and suddenly Sherlock’s hand was touching John’s cheek in the most tender gesture. John leaned into the touch, relaxing into the unanticipated contact even as his libido suddenly roared to life. Sherlock’s eyes went wide, dilating until only a thin sliver of blue-green encircled the pupils. John covered the detective’s hand with his own, holding it in place so he could memorize the warmth. He opened his eyes and smiled, full on smiled at Sherlock, with ‘thank God,’ echoing across his mind. He reached across the small gap between them to sift his hand through Sherlock’s hair, resting it against the nape of the detective’s neck, his fingers twiddling with the fine hairs there. Gooseflesh rose on Sherlock’s arms. John leaned forward a fraction, his chin lifted and an easily deducible question on his lips. But before he could ask it they were kissing and _oh God_ it was perfect and messy and intense and everything John had dreamed of and nothing like any of his dreams at all because it was real and Sherlock tasted of scotch and cigarettes and John’s fingers were tangled in those dark curls and Sherlock’s hands were running up and down his arms, restless, unsure but determined and John needed to breathe suddenly but didn’t want to stop, never ever wanted to stop…

The kiss ended as suddenly as it began, the two men panting, their eyes locked.

“It’s not just because…” Sherlock said quietly

“D’you know how long I’ve wanted…” John began simultaneously and they both laughed. He leaned his forehead against Sherlock’s chest and took a deep breath. He looked up again into Sherlock’s eyes, searching. There were many unanswered questions there, but most of them could wait. There was one, however, that needed answering.

“It’s always been you,” the doctor murmured, voice rough. “I’m sorry.” Sorry it took so long, sorry about the women, the one in particular.

Sherlock said nothing, but the hand that rested on John’s shoulder slid to the back of his head and drew him up for another kiss. It was all the forgiveness he needed. As this kiss drew to an end, Sherlock murmured in John’s ear, “I’ve loved you from the beginning.”

It was the first, and last, time Sherlock would ever say that word.

 

*****

 

Sherlock had promised John he would hang a shelf in the study for the doctor’s little collection, and true to his word he had a power drill and screws in the study the next day. John sat in the lounge, ostensibly reading the newspaper, but really listening to what was going on in the study should he have to rush in to assist. Sherlock laid out his tools carefully, then took stock: a level, four plaster screws, a pencil, an oak shelf and the power drill. Sherlock was not at all certain about the power drill, but he was a lot less certain he could coax a screw into the plaster without it. Sherlock had spent hours the night before, while John was asleep, researching how to successfully hang a shelf. He had deleted how many different videos he’d seen, but had memorized the steps involved. There had been a power drill in the shed behind the cottage, and Sherlock had brought it in, testing it to make sure it still functioned properly.

The pair had already discussed where they thought the shelf would go, along the east wall, opposite the window. It only remained for Sherlock to do it. He lifted the shelf and placed it against the wall, eying it critically for height and if it was centered on the wall. Once he was happy with placement, he set the level on top of the shelf and tilted it until he got it perfect. Then marked the screw holes with the pencil. So far, so good, but now came the tricky part.

Sherlock picked up the drill, poked one of the screws through a hole in the shelf support, and threaded the drill bit onto the screw. Once again, so far, so good. He placed the shelf against the wall with one hand, making sure that his screw was lined up with the marking he’d made, and then prayed for a moment. He pulled the trigger on the drill and pressed firmly against the wall. To his complete shock, it worked perfectly. Sherlock picked the level up again and re-aligned the other side before threading the screw onto the drill bit again and pulling the trigger. Smooth as silk. The other two screws were equally easy and Sherlock stood back to admire his handywork. All there was left to do was to arrange the items on the shelf in a pleasing way and it would be done.

The detective thought that perhaps chronological order would be best for the items, but when arranged in that way it was exceedingly asymmetrical. Sherlock placed the taller items to the outside, progressively getting smaller until he placed a green feather in the center of the shelf. That looked much better, and Sherlock poked his head out of the study and called to John.

John had heard the drill noises, but not much else, so he was gearing up to help when he heard Sherlock call for him in a pleased tone instead of in a panicked or frustrated one. John walked into the study to see Sherlock with his arms folded over his chest, grinning like a boy. Some things just never change. John turned to the east wall and observed his shelf and collection. It was immaculate. John smiled and hugged Sherlock, pulling him down for a peck on the cheek.

“Thank you.”

“Of course.”


	8. A Study in Pink...Paint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another Sussex adventure!

John was not at all sure why anyone would want to paint a bathroom Pepto-Bismol pink, but that was the exact shade of the ensuite in the Sussex cottage. It made the doctor’s stomach gurgle ominously just walking into the room in the morning, and he had never even tried to shower there, despite the fact that it was so much easier to get into the stall shower in the ensuite than to clamber over the lip of the tub in the ‘guest’ bathroom. After about two weeks of feeling ill in his own bathroom, he brought it up to Sherlock.

They were having breakfast on the patio. The weather was so beautiful it seemed a shame to waste a single moment of it. Sherlock was skimming the news on his tablet, but John was a traditional man and still preferred a printed paper. It was only published once a week now, but John would read a section or so a day and make it last from Friday to Friday without too much trouble. Today was…well, he was on the entertainment section of the paper, so it must be Monday. Weekdays had become confusing now that he didn’t have a surgery schedule to keep.

“Sherlock, can we paint the ensuite?”

“Hmm?”

“The ensuite. It’s revolting, and I wanted to know if it was possible to paint it.”

Sherlock looked up from his tablet and gave John a scrutinizing look.

“Of course it’s _possible_ ,” the detective replied. “Permitted, even. But what’s wrong with the way it is?”

John stared at Sherlock in disbelief. “Did you not see what color it is?”

“Pink.”

“Not just pink, but a sickening shade of it. Did you really not notice?”

“Of course I noticed, John.” Sherlock rolled his eyes as he set his tablet down on the table. “I may be old but I am not yet blind.”

“But it doesn’t make you sick when you’re in there?”

“Not in the slightest.”

John groaned and wiped a hand down his face. After being married to this man for so many years, he really should have known.

“Right, then you won’t care what color I paint it will you?”

“No. Although my complexion is atrocious against certain shades of brown, so avoid that color family if you please.”

John sniggered a bit, then grinned. “Oh, well, there goes that idea because I was going to paint it olive green to compliment my complexion.”

“That would be a terrible…” Sherlock began, then stopped and snorted. “Well done. Very well done. Alright, I suppose we can go together to choose the color.”

 

******

 

The couple returned to the cottage with a lovely shade of moss green for the ensuite walls, brushes, painter’s tape, and a gigantic sheet of plastic with which to cover the sink and toilet. John changed into some trousers he should have got rid of years ago but hadn’t, and an undershirt he’d been looking for a reason to throw out. He carried everything but the paint into the little bathroom and began pulling chunks of tape off the roll to secure the plastic. Then he started taping around all the edges of the room, whistling as he did so. He liked to do this kind of thing occasionally, but had never gotten the chance in Baker Street. Once he got the baseboard taped off, he started along the door frame and ran into a slight problem. The ensuite was definitely too small for a ladder, and John couldn’t reach above the door to tape or paint. Shit. A chair maybe?

The doctor plucked a chair from the breakfast nook and carried it into the ensuite, but no matter which way he turned it, it was either tilted against the sink or caught on the lip of the shower. His eyes fell on the toilet for a moment, before he set the chair outside the room and pulled himself, painfully, on top of the toilet. He was tall enough now, but it was too far away from the door to reach comfortably. He could do the whole fucking bathroom from the toilet except above the door. He puffed an exasperated sigh and stepped stiffly down from the toilet lid.

“Sherlock?” John poked his head out of the bathroom and tried again. “Sherlock?”

John frowned, the cottage wasn’t that big, he should be able to hear him. Maybe he’d gone outside. John exited the bathroom, and walked as quickly as he could through the house, checking each room as he went to make sure the detective wasn’t there and in need of medical attention. No Sherlock inside. Well then.

John opened the door to the patio and stopped dead in his tracks. Sherlock was indeed outside with over a hundred of those little paint chip samples they had at the hardware shop. He had them spread over the patio, arranged in color groups. White was in the center, and radiating from that single optic white paint sample, an entire world of color emerged. It was beautiful.

“Wow,” John breathed.

Sherlock visibly started, his hand dropping the paint sample he’d been about to place. “John. Hello. Done already?”

“What? Oh, no. I came out here to ask you…” John trailed off as he found yet another radiation point inside the paint samples. Who knew there were so many different shades of yellow? Sherlock chuckled.

“Ask me what John?” the detective prompted, sitting back on his heels. John had no idea how he could still do that.

“Tape, paint, door,” John said, each word clear and succinct.

“Height giving you some problems?” Sherlock asked, smirking. John scowled good-naturedly.

“Just come on,” the doctor said, waving at the detective to follow.

Sherlock taped the door without a problem, bur frowned when John held out a brush and paint bucket.

“You’re not serious,” he said, towering above John while standing on the toilet.

“Just above the door. I can’t reach, and there’s not enough room in here for a chair.”

Sherlock gestured to his button down and crisply creased trousers, and John laughed.

“You’ll just have to be careful, then. Or you can change. Either way. It won’t take you long, love.” John smiled up at Sherlock and limped away. Climbing on that toilet had not been a good idea.

Sherlock held the brush and paint gingerly and stared at them for a few moments. He knew it was useless to try to explain to John what happened every time he attempted to use paint. It was impossible to understand if you’d never seen it before. Ever since he was a small child, whenever he was presented with liquid paint, more of it would end up on his clothes and in his hair than would make it onto the surface he was supposed to be painting. Neither Mummy nor Mycroft could understand how it happened.

Da had been the one to chuckle knowingly and offer his son a smock. “I can’t go collect the post without getting dirty,” he’d said. “Don’t worry. It’s what baths are for.”

In every other aspect of his life, Sherlock was immaculately clean, but he’d never got the hang of painting without making a complete bloody mess of everything. He sighed heavily and dipped the brush, immediately dripping paint onto his sleeve.

 

******

 

John sat in his chair on the patio and studied the paint samples Sherlock had been working with. The pattern and arrangement of color was amazingly complex. But, that was Sherlock for you. He heard the door open behind him and looked up, a tender smile dying on his face as he took in the sight of his husband.

“What on Earth…”

Sherlock’s hair was streaked with green, his cuffs looked as though they’d been dipped into the paint. There were speckles and blotches on his trousers and socks. It looked as though he’d been through one of those paintball courses and had been shot at every opportunity.

“The area above the door is finished,” Sherlock said, “And I would appreciate it if you didn’t ask for my assistance in this sort of thing again.”

“Of course,” John replied, biting his lips to keep from laughing outright. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late, I know. Sorry!


	9. New Additions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock find something unexpected as they investigate a crime.

Lestrade watched as Sherlock circled the corpse, bending to examine a minute detail, run his nitrile-gloved hands through her hair, lift each of her arms and watch them drop back to the dew-wet weeds in what would have been a back garden had the building been kept up. She wore cut off shorts that were two sizes too small and a tee shirt that barely covered her ample cleavage. Her hair was bottle blonde on top with almost black underneath, which reminded Lestrade of a skunk. A 200 centimeter tall privacy fence blocked the view into the garden from all but the top floors of the neighboring buildings. It was an eerie spot even without the dead woman in the center of it.

“Right. Early twenties, maybe twenty-five at most. Not a career-oriented young lady if her wardrobe is anything to go by,” Sherlock said, a bit disdainfully. Lestrade nodded, waiting for the big reveal. “Hadn’t attended uni, lived…” here the detective paused for a moment, and examined the woman’s thong sandals with his pocket magnifier, “not too far from here, perhaps on this street, although to be honest there is a fair amount of cross-contamination from the prevailing winds. Could be up to three blocks north-west.”

“Fantastic,” John breathed as he stood beside the detective inspector, the corner of his mouth twitching up in a smile.

Lestrade saw Sherlock quirk his lips in response to the doctor’s whispered praise. His case was going to be solved, and if that took John whispering to Sherlock, then so be it. It wouldn’t be any weirder than any of the other shit Sherlock did at a crime scene. It had gotten a bit tedious after the two had become a couple, though. It was one thing to feel like an idiot next to Sherlock, quite another to feel like the third wheel on a date at his own crime scene.

“Recently deceased,” Sherlock continued, “although I think even Anderson could have figured that one out. Killed after sunrise, there’s no dew in her hair. It’s unlikely she was killed here, there’s not enough disturbance of the surrounding vegetation. She was dragged through the house, though, because there are short acrylic fibers stuck to her clothing that appear to be from a carpet of some kind. May I?”

Lestrade sighed, then waved the consulting detective on with a dismissive gesture. He’d take samples anyway, at least this way Greg would know which ones he’d taken. He laughed. That was one good thing about John, he’d made Sherlock at least pretend to be polite.

 

*****

 

They found out where the girl lived two days later, and sure enough, it was almost exactly three blocks north-west. Cheeky arsehole. Sherlock and John shared that grin they had that spoke more words than could possibly be exchanged in an hour of normal conversation. Lestrade envied them, wished there was someone in his life right now that he could share an expression with that would understand. He wasn’t sure he’d ever had something like that, the ex-wife certainly never understood him.

As they approached the house, they heard frantic barking. The back yard of this duplex was fenced almost identically to the one in which they’d found her body. The barking came from behind the fence. Lestrade sighed. There was never just one victim to a crime like that. Even if it was just a dog.

John took off running toward the back fence full tilt with Sherlock on his heels for once, skidding to a halt by the gate. Sherlock bent to inspect the lock for a moment before it popped open as if by magic. Lestrade pretended not to notice. The pair were inside the gate before the detective inspector got to the open door, and when he poked his head inside, John was on the ground trying to coax a scruffy dog out from under the back deck. When Lestrade crouched down to take a closer look, the dog looked to be at least partly bulldog, with the jowly face and barrel chest. John had pulled one of those mini cheeses out of his coat pocket and was holding it out to the dog.

Slowly, terrified and starving, the dog crept out from under the deck and snatched the cheese away from John’s fingers, pulling back under the deck with his prize, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the doctor’s hand.

“It’s alright,” John said softly. “I won’t hurt you.”

 

*****

 

“Absolutely not,” Sherlock shouted, flinging his arms in the air emphatically.

“Why? It’s just a dog,” John said, setting his tea on the table beside his chair.

“No. I will not have a dog in this flat,” Sherlock said, the vehemence in his voice startling the doctor.

“Sherlock this is ridiculous. He’s a perfectly nice dog! At least come with me to see him.”

“If I go see him and still refuse will you drop it once and for all?”

John sighed heavily. He’d always been something of a dog person, and he’d taken a rather personal interest in the animal they’d found at that girl’s home. Aside from being half-starved, the dog had been in pretty good shape and John had taken an immediate shine to the sturdy little creature. Obviously Sherlock had not, or had something against dogs, or who knows what. John was certain the dog could win him over, though.

Next day, they arrived at the shelter where the dog had been living since being picked up by Animal Control the week before. As John approached the run, he began wagging his stump of a tail and running up and down the pen, snuffling and occasionally giving out his version of a bark, which sounded more like a sneeze than anything else. John grinned and waited while the attendant unlocked the run. Sherlock stood back, watching with studied disdain, but when John turned to look, he could see there was something underneath the cold disinterest. Years of watching the detective gave him a glimpse of the emotions that happened beneath his unruffled exterior.

“Come on, give him a pat,” John said, holding out a hand invitingly. Sherlock merely sniffed and shook his head. Drastic measures were necessary, then.

“Can I take him for a walk today?”

“’Course, let me find a leash.”

“Come on, there’s a park a few blocks over. He loves it there, don’t you Tony?”

“Tony?” Sherlock said, interested despite himself.

“If he’d been a girl, it would have been Margaret. But Tony will do, don’t you think?”

Sherlock snorted, then choked on his own laughter. John grinned, pleased.

 

*****

 

Sherlock found himself, despite all his certainty to the contrary, enjoying walking through the park with John and Tony. It felt… complete somehow in a way that he couldn’t quite describe but was certain had everything to do with sentiment. But he couldn’t quite get Redbeard out of his head, and it made him a bit on the ruminative side as they strolled and Tony snuffled.

“You’re thinking so loud I can hardly stand it. What’s up?” John asked finally.

“Contemplating the logistics of acclimating a canine to our lifestyle. I’m not at all certain it would be beneficial for either party.”

“You’re the one who’s up all night and refuses to eat. Unless you’ve missed this bit, I have a pretty regular schedule unless we’re on a case. Which, speaking of, did Lestrade arrest the boyfriend?”

“All neat and tidy with a little bow on top,” Sherlock said. “Dull, really. He could have been a _bit_ more original.”

“You left the flat for it.”

“Only because Lestrade begged.”

“You’re getting a bit soft,” John teased and gently elbowed Sherlock in the side as they walked back to the shelter.

 

******

 

Tony came home with John and Sherlock the next day. There were food bowls and a dog cushion and chew toys littered around the sitting room. It was all very… melancholy for the detective. John had done most of the shopping for supplies, although Sherlock had ordered a rather posh leather collar online as well as identification tags. They would arrive in the post early next week. Sherlock would bend to pat Tony idly sometimes, but he kept his distance, never really bonding with the dog. It was worrying John, Sherlock knew, but he wasn’t sure how to approach the subject. It was entirely due to sentiment, which was still difficult for the detective to put into words.

“You do like Tony, don’t you?” John asked one evening. “Because you don’t really seem to.”

“John…” Sherlock said, his tone blending exasperation and a note of warning. He was not going to discuss this. It was enough that he’d allowed another dog into his life. He would not allow it to occupy his heart because Sherlock knew he would outlive it, unlike John Watson who was likely to outlive the detective.

“Had a dog before?” John said casually. Too casually. He knew something.

“Been talking to Mycroft again, haven’t you?”

John blinked rapidly for a moment before sliding into a sarcastic half-smile.

“He wouldn’t tell me anything other than to ask you about the dog you had as a boy.”

“Meddling prat,” Sherlock murmured.

“Tell me about him,” John said. “If he was important to you, I want to know.”

Sherlock considered this, considered how best to begin because there was so much to say and so few words that adequately expressed the devotion Sherlock had felt toward that most magnificent dog. The detective cleared his throat and decided to begin at the beginning.

“His name was Redbeard…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so the dog's name is Tony because:
> 
> Gladstone was the PM of Britain when Doyle was writing the original canon and was then the dog's name in... Oh crumb, I've forgotten where it comes from, but it's not ACD canon. Anyway, since everything else is updated, I thought I'd be a bit amusing and give the dog a more contemporary name, too.

**Author's Note:**

> What domestic chores will Sherlock be forced to confront next? Only John Watson knows.... ha.
> 
> Anyway, let me know if you like it, comments/critiques always welcome. This has not been Brit-picked as I don't have connections...


End file.
